Silence stretched between us, heavy but not uncomfortable. Just real.
Then he nodded—slow, reluctant, but genuine. “Okay,” he murmured. “Yeah. I’ll… I’ll talk to someone.”
Relief bloomed warm in my chest.
"But." He turned to look at me fully, and I saw it in his eyes—not just fear but respect. Recognition of the woman I'd become. The woman who'd survived, who'd fought, who'd held on. "But you're right. You need to do this. And you need to do it on your own terms."
"I do."
"I'll come with you?—"
"No." I squeezed his hand, brought it to my lips, and kissed his knuckles that were still scabbed from punching walls when he'd heard I was taken. "This is something I need to face myself. To prove to myself that I can. That I'm not runningfromsomething buttowardsomething."
His eyes met mine. “Toward what?"
"You. This life. The ranch. The music I actually want to make." I gestured at the land spread before us—the pastures going purple in the twilight, the barn where we'd made love that morning in the hay loft, the house that had become home. "Everything that matters."
He pulled me against him, and we sat in silence, watching the sun paint the sky in shades of pink and orange and impossible purple. I could feel his heart racing under my palm, the war between letting me go and keeping me close playing out in every rapid beat.
"I'll wait," he said finally, the words soft but certain. "Doesn't matter how long it takes. I'll be right here. On this porch. Waiting."
"I know you will."
"I'll probably be unbearable. Clay and Wyatt will hate me. I'll be checking my phone every five minutes, calling you every night."
"Good. I'll need to hear your voice."
"Every night," he repeated, like a vow. "Even if it's just for a minute. Just so I know you’re ok.
Relief hit me so hard I leaned forward and kissed him—soft, grateful, full of love. He kissed me back, cupping my cheek gently, like he still wasn’t sure I wouldn’t break.
When I deepened it a little—testing, wanting—he froze just slightly.
“Your ribs,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over my side.
“They’re fine,” I insisted, trying to climb into his lap.
He caught me with a laugh. “Steph—slow down.”
“No,” I groaned, tipping my head back dramatically. “I’m trying to have a moment here. A sexy moment.”
He laughed harder. “You just guilt-tripped me into therapy, and now you want porch- sex?”
“Yes,” I said shamelessly. “I’m a complex woman.”
He leaned in, kissing me once—slow and warm. “Tonight,” he promised against my lips.
“But I want you now,” I muttered, tugging at his shirt.
He nudged his forehead against mine, laughing more. “You are impossible.”
“And you love me.”
“Yeah.” His voice softened. “I really do.”
Hours later, after a bubble bath and a glass of wine Liam insisted on, my body was humming like a live current. I couldn’t take it anymore. I wanted—no, Ineededhim.
He was already in bed, reading something in the dim light. I propped myself against the door frame and just watched him. Watched the slow rise and fall of his chest, the small furrow in his brow as he read, the way he licked his finger before he turned a page. Heat slipped down my spine, settling low between my legs. I was aching with it. Not the kind of ache that still hit my ribs if I twisted wrong. This ache was hot, urgent, incessant. The kind that couldn’t be ignored and demanded to be sated.
